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And the second place winner is... The Terminator

From the editor: In January we invited readers to submit their own
versions of "Where Did I Go Wrong" in the second Mike Obenski
Writing Contest. More than 200 entries poured in and among them Mike Obenski
found four worthy of appearing with "the master." This month,
Dr. Mark Peter's entry, "The Terminator," garners second prize.
Next month the third prize winner will appear; in September, the honorable
mention.

By Mark E. Peters, DVM, PC

Contributing author

It was in the summer of 1984, about a year after I'd opened my solo small
animal practice, that it began.

On a fine June afternoon, my front door was wrenched violently open and
in strode a fellow with a very bloody Pit Bull Terrier in his arms.

When I say "fellow," I want you to picture the bad guy in the
movie, "Raising Arizona-a huge, long-haired, bearded, black-leather-clad,
fingerless-glove-wearing, metal studded, um fellow. He was followed closely
by five or six companions of more or less the same description.

"Hey, Doc," he growled. "Ah need yuh ta tek cara mah dawg!"

Unsettling as this situation was, especially having erupted so suddenly,
I summoned my best calm and professional demeanor (which I'd been practicing
a lot lately) and said, "Fine, sir, bring him into my examination room."

In truth, just then, I didn't feel like I had much choice. Into my exam
room he came, bloody dog and all, crowded closely by his minions. My exam
room isn't very big, and I soon felt that it had been invaded by a herd
of curious, if somewhat menacing, buffalo.

'Gee, Doc, I dunno'

The dog in question, whose name I don't recall, had suffered a large
number of lacerations, macerations and puncture wounds-the origins of which
were baffling and mysterious to his presenters upon questioning.

In spite of his injuries, the dog was amazingly stable and unconcerned,
though all of you who have worked with the breed know you practically have
to shoot them to kill them.

In any event, I anesthetized the brute, dealt with his punctures and
lacerations, placed a few drains, gave him a big shot of antibiotic and
in a day or two, sent him home with his scary owner.

Hoping to discourage further visits, I charged what I thought was an
inordinate amount. I think it was more than 300 bucks. He paid it happily,
drawing a hairy paw from a pocket and peeling the cash off of a thick roll.
He was wearing a sort of horrible gap-toothed grin and I construed this
as gratitude. This was reinforced by a number of bone-jarring thumps on
the back, administered upon his departure.

In the beginning

Before I go any further, I think a bit of background is in order.

I was born and raised in Council Bluffs, Iowa, but was new back in town
after a seven-year stint in undergrad and veterinary school at Iowa State.
It was widely rumored, I came to find out, that a certain part of town,
roughly "down by the river," was home to lawless and immoral behavior
of all kinds-gambling, drug-dealing, dog fighting, girls you wouldn't take
home to meet your mother and who knows what else. Of all such, I was happily
ignorant, content mostly with trying to avoid foreclosure on my small enterprise.

Back to our story

Getting back to the hairy cabal described earlier, it seems they took
a shine to me and a pattern developed that continued throughout that summer.
The "Terminator" or one of his henchmen would barge in about once
a week with a chewed up, to one degree or another, dog. I even devised my
own evaluation system grading them on a kind of triage basis, Mangle 1 through
Mangle 5, the last being, obviously, the worst. We got used to it. I'd say
to my vet techs, "OK girls, henchman in Exam 1, Mangle 2, you know
the drill. Stat!"

To those readers, presumably colleagues, who are intently frowning at
this moment, let me say that I had, from the outset, an ethical problem
regarding this matter.

The dogs were obviously injured from fighting, but I was fresh out of
school, unsure of which authority I should contact, and whether if I did
so, it would violate doctor/client/patient confidentiality. I sought out
an older practitioner in the community whom I'd always respected. I sat
in his office and explained the situation, of which he was mostly already
aware.

He looked wearily over the top of his glasses and said, "Hells a
matter with you son? You'd best just stick to veterinary medicine; keep
you in one piece."

So that's what I did. They brought 'em to the clinic in whatever grade
of Mangle, I patched 'em up and they paid handsomely in cash.

Until the last one.

Late that summer, a #4 Mangle was brought in, not by the Terminator,
but by one of his associates who seemed to be in a big hurry. I performed
my usual ministrations, and the same henchman picked up the dog the following
day. Oddly for them, he said he had no money just then and "The Boss"
would be in to settle up the next day.

Well, the next day came and nobody showed up. There were rumors of a
big police bust "down by the river" with lots of arrests and all
those implicated headed to The Big House for a long state-funded vacation.
After that, it got pretty quiet.

The reunion

Three years later, in the summer of 1987, I went, late on a Saturday
afternoon, to a small butcher shop in the neighborhood to purchase a steak
to grill that evening. As I exited, the steak in hand, and started to get
into my car, a very ominous looking car pulled in tightly behind me, blocking
me in with no conceivable route of escape. It was a very grubby white Cadillac
lowrider, about a '63, and it was absolutely bristling with big, hairy motorcycle
guys. There were at least a dozen of them jammed in there, yelling and throwing
stuff and chugging beers. In the rear view, I see the driver heave his considerable
bulk from the seat, and after a cursory weave to get his bearings, make
a beeline for me.

Gigantic nightmare

He was just huge, truly the stuff of nightmares, and as he bore down
on me, I began to panic. The driver's window was open and for some reason,
perhaps violent trembling on my part, it wouldn't roll up. Ham-sized fists
grabbed the top of the driver's side door and this apparition stuck his
whole head through the window. We were about an inch apart and his breath
smelled like stale beer, tobacco and something dead.

In a flash, I recognized him! It was the Terminator! His bloodshot eyes
got all narrow and as he poked me in the chest he growled, "Wal, if
it ain't the Doc! I b'leve I got a bone to pick with you, Mister!"

At this point, I just wanted somebody to shoot me and get it over with,
but then the Terminator extracted his head, took a step back and so help
me, started to giggle!

Immensely pleased with himself, he pulled out the usual roll of cash,
whipped off some hundred dollar bills and dropped them in my lap. He cuffed
me then, playfully, on the head like a momma bear would her cub. As he lurched
away, he stopped and turned. Waggling a hairy finger at me, he said, "By
Gaw, Doc, you OK!"

Shortly, the lowrider pulled away in a kind of flurry, empty beer cans
flying in every direction and all the boys giving me a vigorous thumbs up
shouting, "Hell, yes, Doc! You all right!"

I haven't seen 'em since. Truth be known, I kinda miss 'em.

I was born and raised, happily in Council Bluffs, Iowa. I entered Iowa
State University in the fall of 1975 and graduated from veterinary school
there in 1982. I worked for a year in a multi-veterinarian practice in Lincoln,
Neb., then opened my own practice in Council Bluffs in the summer of 1983.
My wife, Diane, and I live on 57 acres in the Loess Hills, north of Council
Bluffs with three dogs, lots of wildlife and a pet raccoon named Tinkerbelle.
Don't ask.